Saturday, December 5, 2020
Home Poetry Ghost knocking

Ghost knocking

She left him nothing,

not a word, not even

a single letter. But everywhere

he turned, he could feel

 

her cupped hand riding

a plank the shape of a heart,

brass castors and wheels

of bone slowly churning,

 

searching. He closed his eyes

and saw letters carved in reverse

against wood, her hand

making whispering sounds.

 

Am I the one who is no more

than a ghost knocking

about on a board? He asked,

but the distance he couldn’t grasp.

 

 

Night is a body of water

 

 

He stares into the sea and his flesh

turns to water. Grains of salt

in the pockets of his ears murmur

with the dawn before melting.

 

The smell of skin pounded by waves.

“If I touch you, it would be like mapping

the sky, guessing who lightning

will strike next,” she whispers.

 

He swirls into the twisted

ends of her hair. Limbs of seaweed

on sand. Eyes patiently carved

by water in the heart of shells.

 

 

 

Ador Millari, Please Haunt Us All

after a photograph by Ezra Acayan

 

 

Some say it’s a blessing, this life

and every breath we take

even while riddled with suffering.

How much has inflation affected

the price of bullets in the past

 

two years? These days, an assassin

has to be less discreet and deliver

even the smallest parcel to his master.

He may have to use fewer bullets

when possible and, instead of riding

 

a motorcycle, take a walk down

a busy street where a random

homeless person might be huddled

in sleep. For what else could be taken

from such a victim?

 

 

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